My Total Circus

You are my total circus; the elephants, the giraffes, the penguins in their button-down dress

You are my mostly where what and my total why

Most of the bluest of my blue-black sky

But also the darkest of thunder clouds and hail

A total circus needs the sun and a darkening moon,

A way to see possible tomorrows and to catalogue every day's too certain sorrows.

But always with yourself to touch and to hold my heart to your heart in the biggest of tents.

You are my total circus. Yes, ma'am.

Little noises in the world

Something about the black holes and collisions of stars that we think we see in the form of various light but never (okay, almost never) hear as sound to our living ears . . . I am partly deaf but live with intent to hear . . .

My Grand Mama and her sons: 1918 Pandemic

They weren't mama's boys; mama died before they walked.
Karl and Ralph were shipped to Oklahoma before they talked.
They saw their old dog Ben chasing the train
before he finally disappeared in the downpour rain.
But Karl and Ralph were tough as hail in a storm
and learned to dig, plant and chop on a cousin's farm
before they grew to 5 & 6 and jumped the midnight train
in pouring rain to search and find a way back to Ben.

Tossed from the train and cussed in hail and rain
they walked, slept and begged their way back again
to find the old farmstead and their dog named Ben.
They slept at night in cursed cold with a simple jacket
until they woke one morning to a hell of a racket
as the old dog licked and turned, barked and growled
and roused them from their sleep with a lonesome cry.
These were mama's boys who walked and learned to howl.

My Younger Brothers

I cannot really cope with my world. It is more than I think.
Mostly, I continue in a fog but fortunately, people love me.

At least as long as I smile, my brothers, both dead, still live.
I am as much of them as anyone and know some things better.

Our jobs, our lives, our entrepreneurship intermingled sometimes
but never touched the heart of our trust or hope for each other.

We were close, almost close, we sometimes worked and played,
sometimes drank a bit, we relied, denied and finally will die.

We were often stubborn, hopeful, drunk, loving and even wise.
We exchanged advice, sometimes requested and sometimes not.

Still, we listened to each other with half ear and total trust.
Sometimes, despite gods, the world is too much for some of us.

in progress

I am no loner nor a packer; I move with friends.
Except for dumb jokes, all I intend to say is credible.
I am looking after children and then survival
like any other sane animal, my goals are toward my ends.

Whacko Leadership

We suffer from a lack of leadership. That's true.
More, we suffer for continuing whacko leadership.
And trump is too dumb to be a traditional Whacko!
He has no sense of any reality but his imagined shit.
And that shit is real, he contemplates on his pot
and dumps his thoughts like turds among his staff.

Yesterdays and Rain

I miss different people on different days;
I miss my friends in so many twinkly ways.
I miss my brothers tomorrow and yesterday.
I smile more than cry, because my brothers did.
I hang on every word I remember that they said.
I can almost talk to them live on days of rain.

Friends of all Sorts

Sometimes I see best without a fat pen in hand.
Maybe a bike ride through wetlands never visited before
not knowing what I might see or who I could meet
sometimes collecting favorite rocks from other bikers
mostly folks sleeping along the railroad tracks
not asking, mostly wanting to share what they had
certain of gold in stone or magic in blessed rocks
and glad for a chance to teach and talk their saving lore.
I am blessed to have met and listened to such folks,
I am double blessed to see them again and wave hello.

Spring in Lane County

Willamette valley begins our wonderful Springs
clumsily and slowly, pretending bluest of skies
while bitty spots of yellow and dripping grey skies
merely sport a flowery smile pretending Spring.

Elegy (without number)

She circled round, back and forth,
a virtuoso of hope, caged by memory,
rearranging her ancient rocks
in simple patterns on an endless path.

She hummed at songs of birth,
rainbows hugged into an apron
of an always busy, swaying lap:
distaccare tempo announcing death.

Her perfect celestial math
curved her summons of love
to the unequal cruelty of the pretty April
flowers planted around her porch.

She might have seen her worth
someday beyond the woven bars
of her personal garden, a shrinking jail;
but she never looked nor altered course.